The Hunter Becomes The Hunted
++ Vos ++ Set high on the edge of a mountain ridge, Vos is a gleaming spire of silver and metallic blues rising high into the heavens. Central to the region is the Vosian Citadel, home of the Cybertronian Air Command, the training grounds and headquarters of the planetary air force. Composed of multiple towers, spires, obelisks and domed needles, the air through the region and around the polity itself is filled with wings of flying Cybertronians of all kinds that dart in and out among the many landing platforms like flocks of birds. Far beneath the aeries, closer to the planet's surface, are industrial centers that link the city to the rest of the planet through roads, bridges and mushroom-shaped generator complexes. Vos is rich in energy resources, making it almost completely independent from the rest of the world; these energy resources are mined, worked and processed by lower-caste laborers who cannot fly upwards towards the city's more luxurious heights. Contents: Detour Vosian Citadel Exits: NE Pass S Polyhex N Cronum E Sea W Praxus Normally Detour would not be present for delivering some of his goods, his perfectly legal goods, but this was a special occasion. Someone was holding a hob-nobbing sort of event, and they were willing to pay good money for enough hatching pods to serve all of their guests. To be sure not a single one got harmed or went missing, he personally made sure the shipment arrived on time and intact. After hands were shook, small business-oriented talk concluded, and payment received, Detour could be seen strolling down a ramp that led up to a back entrance where deliveries could be handled without interrupting the higher caste civilians. There is a notable grimace on his face as another mech following him insists on a bonus for having to deliver so much on such short notice. After all, Detour was along to supervise, but he still needed the services of someone else to physically tansport the load. A someone on his payroll. "Like always, your accounts will be settled on the usual day. /IF/ I give you a bonus, it will be included then. Now get going onto the next shipment of pods before my clemency runs out. You'll have to make it to Kaon and the clock is ticking." With these works and a well placed glare, the bulky transport mech hurries over to the closest road, transforms, and skedaddles. Detour stands at a still, watching the mech go with an expression of incredulity. Did they really believe that the squeaky wheel gets oiled? Because this day and age, sometimes the squeaky wheel just gets tossed out with the trash. To even begin to fathom the fact that Cybertronians dined on her kind was enough to make Scorn sick. True, Insecticons aren't too picky and don't mind cannibalism, but at least they don't go invading homes and stealing people to feast on. ..At least not yet. Hearing of this event through word of mouth and well placed drones, the Queen herself has grown rather curious and finds herself enjoying a small cafe across the street from the building, if only to have a look while in the area. And she was quite enjoying herself, chatting with her assistant Deadlift, until a familiar scent catches her by surprise. Hatching pods..? Her head swivels 'round from her drink to zero in on the alley leading to the back of the building, the femme still as stone with only antennas twitching. It wasn't her place to intervene in the business of the Cybertronians.. but if she's going to help her kin, she might as well have a look. "Deadlift, with me." The mantis says smoothly and rises from her seat, the far smaller mech unsuredly following behind as she begins to approach the alley and likely come upon Detour as he exits. Detour was just considering whether to seek out a half decent establishment to get some energon, since the payment was a hefty one, or perhaps get a nice refinish on the ol' chassis. Part of making money is looking like you have a lot already! It is while considering this that the unmistakably tall insecticon seems to be heading more or less in his direction. He almost doesn't mention the tinier one that accompanies her. Detour stares and does little to hide his staring, then looks around, searching for the sign of a possible owner of this intrigueing specimen. Seeing him exit the alley, Scorn would make a beeline for Detour, a curious air buzzing about otherwise regal presentation. Stepping before the mech now, she formally folds her arms at her back and stands tall and proper, molten gold optics eyeing him judgingly from behind hooded expression. "..You know it's quite rude to stare, dear." Scorn says after a long moment of him staring at her, now greeting him with a sharp curl of her lips. "Forgive me for being so bold, but I couldn't help but smell a rather.. intriguing aroma about you." She leans in, overshadowing the shorter mech as smile grows tighter and flashes the barest hint of teeth. "I'm rather curious how a mech such as yourself could come to have it.. Hm. Do tell, what is your name?" She smells Insecticons on him, something she's not liking at all right now. With the much more directed approach from the insecticon, Detour crosses his arms over his chest. And he has quite the infuriating smirk on his face as he observes the 'proper' body language, as if attributing it to some little trick a pet picked up from his master. But then, it speaks. Oh brother. One of those he's heard about. However, as Detour listens to the talking, he realises more and more this isn't just mimicry. He is actually being spoken to. By an insecticon. Spoken to, like a person, not just the facsimile of cybertronian speech. Detour's jaw drops just a little bit, but he quickly closes his mouth and narrows his blue optics. He's not about to be intimidated so easily. The very audacity of this, this beast! "I didn't imagine an /insecticon/ would have much use for manners," Detour responds, saying the word insecticon like it were beneath him. As far as he is concerned, they are. "And before I tell you my name, I'd like to know the name of your Master, for he seems to be a bit too careless of his or her possessions." Oh no. Detour didn't. But he did. However, Detour is not a stranger to insecticons getting violent, and he unfolds his arms, placing them at his sides, one hand ready to whip out a weapon if necessary. Ah, another typical Cybertronian. Thinking themselves above Insecticon kind like owners to a dog. Oh how nasty of a surprise Detour will get. But it won't come in the form of anger, Scorn instead holding a rather amused expression while listening, though Deadlift is steadily stepping back. A shame Detour couldn't understand wavespeech or he'd see the roiling, crackling abyss that spreads out from her like a looming thunderstorm. "A Master? You believe me to be one of those drones your kind seeks to steal and raise as pets? How precious." A chuckle, dark and malicious, rolls from the femme when taking a step forward to invade his space. "I suppose I would be the Master, though, so I'm afraid you speak directly to me, no matter how much your backwards little mind dislikes it." Not moving an inch to back off, Scorn bears down on him with the invisible weight of some darkness surrounding her, though her tone becomes more thoughtful when rubbing her chin. "And you know, it is quite rude to not introduce yourself when in the presence of a queen, so I suppose I will have to uphold these manners you seem to lack and offer my name first. I am High Queen Scorn of Animatron. Perhaps you have heard of me, theif?" As the tall femme moves further into his space, one of his hands makes a fist while he stares up at her defiantly and stubbornly. The posturing of this insecticon IS impressive, but Detour is of the mind to never back down to Insecticons or they will walk all over you. Or crawl, rather. And all through her speech he remains with a locked chin, defiant glare, and surly posture despite his shorter stature. He idly wishes he hadn't left his wave converter at his office, but he was not expecting to encounter any Insecticons while out and about. "Animatron?" Detour says. He rubs his chin, as if suddenly seeing Scorn in a different light. It's been millenia since he'd been anywhere near Animatron. He'd never actually been there of course, but had managed some disasters en route. That was so long ago. "You may be used to those who kneel before you, but you are not on Animatron anymore. And I pity you for being here in these times, because you are likely to learn first hand that when the inevitable civil war comes, your title will mean nothing." Yes. Pity her. She will undoubtedly fall from her current graces and taste bitter humility, just like he had. Or so he hopes. He still neglects to introduce himself, and does it quite willfully. "Indeed." Scorn agrees wholeheartedly, not dropping her wicked smile. "But you know what I am far more used to? Battle." The word is said with a soft hiss beneath it. "Your civil war does not bother me. In fact, I see opportunity in it, but I won't concern you with any details. Instead.." Like lightning she lashes out, holding no fear for the weapon he might draw on her as a hand quickly attempts to grab hold under his chin, her sharp thumb pressing hard into his cheek. "..Maybe it is /I/ who you be pitying /you/." Golden optics glow fiercly in the shadow of the alley, their soft light the only thing to illuminate the ghoulish appearance her face takes when lower jaw slowly splits in two and flexes dangerously close to his face. "You stink of my kin, of hatching pods and younglings. Wretched, thieving filth like you will be the first to suffer when the time comes. You may think you are safe, but we grow stronger with every passing day. We grow restless for riteous revenge on your ilk. We grow... /hungry/." Opportunity, indeed. Detour has his own ideas of the sorts of opportunities he would be exploiting, but those thoughts vanish as he is abruptly seized by the chin. If there is any fear, Detour would only show a flicker of it at best. Or maybe that is just a grimace from the sharp jab in his cheek. Detour does not dare look away, but continues to stare the beast, for anything with mandibles must be a beast, in the optics, his blue gleaming against her menacing gold. "Your threats..." Detour begins to say, shifting, "...are just that." Not impressed by this treatment, Detour feels himself aptly justified in a retaliation. He may have forgotten his wave converter to interpret wavespeech, but he is not without any tricks. Detour doesn't pull a gun. Instead he activates a device that sends out a disruptive frequency intended to scramble the neuro-electric impulses (or insecticon equivalent). Scorn clicks her mandibles near his face, the flicking tongue between them close enough to almost brush him. "Are they? Well then, maybe I should just skip ahead and be down one--Hrngh!" Detour's saving grace hits Scorn like an invisible fist, instantly releasing him and stumbling back hard into the alley wall while clutching her head. "My Queen! Agh!" Deadlift takes a step forward to try and help, only to immediately get hit as well and crumble to his knees, covering his head in his lap and warbling in weak confusion. "What.. What is that.." Scorn grunts, looking uncertain as she clings to the wall to keep upright. Being more powerful than her assitant, she isn't as debilitated, but she'll be damned if she isn't stunned. Her world is spinning and thoughts jumbled, her gaze on Deadlift now but seeming confused as her wavespeech doesn't reach him. What in the pit did Detour just use on them? Detour could stick around and cleverly explain how he uses only the best technology to keep insecticons in their place, as most villains do. But instead, Detour prefers to finally act on his initial, terrified impulse and flee. The moment Scorn and her assistant are toppled, and he's made sure they are more or less stunned, the stout mech vacates the alley and goes running down the street. The more public a place, the safer he is, and even then, best to put as much distance between himself and her as possible. It's a good thing he didn't tell her his name. It's a good thing Detour has the sense the flee when he does, because a moment later and he'd likely find himself skewered on an arm blade. Hissing viciously as he passes, Scorn stumbles after him, shaking head hard, but only makes it to the opening of the alley where she bellow behind the mech. "Coward! You will pay for this, mark my words! I will find you and make your death as slow and painful as possible!!" Drawing herself up and shaking her head clearer, the femme's split jaw stretches wide and emits a feral, audial piercing shriek in his wake. A warcry calling for his blood. ...Detour is damn lucky to be alive right now, that much is clear.